


As You Are

by Reinamy



Series: Shortaki Week Fics [3]
Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinamy/pseuds/Reinamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first date goes like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Are

**Author's Note:**

> **Shortaki Week Day 04 - "First Time."**

 

 

Arnold isn’t expecting Helga to be the one to make the first move, which is why his brain practically short-circuits when she does. It’s not that he’s been oblivious to the direction their friendship has been heading for years now, or that he hasn’t been anticipating it. He has. He _really_ has. What surprises him is that it’s _Helga_ who acts first **.** After her confession on the FTI rooftop and her clumsily-administered kiss in San Lorenzo, neither of which Arnold responded to well (and he wishes with everything in him that he could go back in time and change that but he _can’t_ ; all he can do now is strive to do better, strive to _be_ better), Arnold thought it would be up to him to make the first move.

He’s been wanting to, for longer than he cares to think about. Can’t even count the number of times he’s imagined it, has thought the words, has had them poised at the tip of his tongue. But fear of messing up again, like he can’t seem to help doing where Helga is concerned, has kept him from acting.

So yes, Arnold is surprised, but considering the type of person Helga is—impatient and reckless and so much braver than he could ever hope to be—he probably shouldn’t be.

 

* * *

They’re eating lunch on the school rooftop, shoulders brushing as they stare up at a sky that clings stubbornly to summer despite the encroaching fall, when Helga breaches the silence.

“Go out with me.”

It takes a moment for her words to register, and when they do Arnold can almost feel the cogs in his head grind to a halt. His neck creaks as he swivels his head in her direction, unsure if the words he heard were real or just a figment of his wishful imagination, but one glance at Helga—at her carefully blank expression, at odds with the rigid slant of her shoulders, as if she’s bracing herself for something—is enough to tell Arnold that he hasn’t misheard. That this isn’t a dream. That it’s _real._

A dozen variations of _oh god, yes_ spring to his lips yet he finds he can’t speak any of them, tongue heavy under their weight. He swallows, but it does little to help. It’s nothing short of ironic, and Arnold would laugh if the situation were in any way humorous. He’s imagined variations of this scenario numerous times, enough that at times he’s felt to have been rehearsing for a play, but the instant it’s real—curtains drawn, audience attentive—stage fright overwhelms him and he forgets his lines.

When he is silent for too long, Helga finally turns to look at him.

It isn’t her face that gives her away. Helga’s always been adept at wiping her expression clean, and even Arnold, who’s known her for _years_ , can’t read her when she takes on the appearance of a blank page.  No, it’s her _eyes—_ blue like the overhead sky, and just as cloudless. There’s something fragile in her gaze—something brittle that’s on the verge of crumbling, broken and put together one too many times—and that’s what snaps Arnold out of his stupor, what prods the cogs in his head to start turning again, what eases the weight on his tongue so it’s possible to speak.

“Okay,” he says, and then again, because Helga’s still tightly wound, a hair-trigger away from snapping. He eases his lunchbox off his lap and sets it aside, then captures her hand in his own. It takes a moment to unclench her fingers, make them malleable enough to bend, and then he’s winding them through his own in a way he’s always wanted to, but never dared. “Okay. I’d like that.”

He watches as Helga’s gaze drops from his face to their entwined hands. Watches as the tension bleeds from her shoulders and her expression wavers. Watches as her lips tremble before slowly beginning to unfurl.

“Of course you will,” she says arrogantly, but there’s a suspicious sheen to her eyes when she looks up at him that makes him burn with the desire to hold her. It takes a while for him to realize that he _can_ now—that there’s no reason to hold back anymore—and he twists until he’s at a better angle to hug her and does just that, gently tugging his hand from hers so that he can wrap both arms around her.

Slowly, so slowly, she melts into the embrace, face pressed into the curve of Arnold’s neck. Her breath is warm against his skin, tickles slightly, and he shivers—half from her breath, half from the sensation of something inside of him finally slotting into place.

“Cold?” Helga whispers, and the way her arms tighten around him, as if to fend off a chill, makes him smile, helpless and wide.

“No,” he says. “Everything is perfect.”

 

* * *

Arnold will never admit to anyone that it takes him two hours to get ready. He spends half the time tearing through his closet trying to find _anything_ that isn’t stained, covered in moth holes, or wrinkled beyond repair. Why has it taken him until _now_ to realize how utterly dorky his wardrobe is? And why hasn’t anyone _said_ anything?

When he finally settles on something it’s out of necessity rather than satisfaction, and it takes everything he has not to tug his hair in frustration when he looks himself over in the mirror. The shirt he chose does nothing to hide the lankiness of his limbs, but it’s the only decent button-down he owns. His jeans are alright he supposes, if a bit faded, and his boots could do with a bit of polishing but they aren’t in _terrible_ condition.

His frustration grows when he turns his attention to his hair. Once he manages to tame the chaos into something that at the right angle could be considered artful he contemplates styling it differently. Would he appear to be trying too hard if he slicked it back?  He’s reaching for the gel when he glances at the clock through the mirror and realizes he’s out of time.

Helga will _murder_ him if he’s late for their first date.

“Cutting it close on the time, eh, Shortman?” his grandpa comments once he’s downstairs.

“How do I look?” Arnold asks, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before spreading his arms.  

“Very handsome,” his grandma answers to his right, and Arnold turns to find her toweling her hands in the doorway. “That girl of yours won’t be able to keep her hands off you. Don’t forget to bring protection, dear—I’m not quite ready to be a great-grandma yet.”

“Grandma!” Arnold chokes, utterly mortified. Behind him, his grandpa cackles. “We’re only fourteen!”

“Pshaw! I’ll have you know that Phil and I were—”

“I don’t want to know!” Arnold shouts, hands pressed to his ears as he flees the room.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” is the last thing he hears before he tears through the front door and dashes down the stairs of the stoop, nearly tripping over the bottom step before he manages to catch himself on the paint-chipped railing.

Arnold loves his grandparents. They raised him after his parents disappeared, and continued to raise him after they were found and he decided he didn’t want to stay in San Lorenzo with them and chose to remain in Hillwood instead. They were the _best_ , and he couldn’t have asked for better guardians.

That didn’t stop him from wishing they weren’t so _embarrassing,_ though.

 

* * *

The sun is nearing its zenith when Arnold rings the Pataki’s doorbell. He worries his bottom lip as he waits, heart beating an erratic tempo and nerves like livewire beneath his skin. As often as he tells himself that his nervousness is irrational—that he and Helga have hung out alone before—he can’t stop focusing on how _different_ it will be now, though the _why_ remains elusive. As far as he can tell the only real difference between before and now is that what went left unsaid before has now been said.

And touching.  There’ll probably be more touching now.

Kissing, too.

Probably.

(Just the thought makes Arnold’s face burn.)

He’s so worked up that when the door wrenches open he _flinches._ Helga’s eyebrow quirks, and he has a half a second to feel embarrassed by his reaction before he notices what she’s wearing and then embarrassment is the least of what he feels.

Helga looks gorgeous. Well, she _always_ looks gorgeous but now she’s especially so. Her dress is simple, but nice, a coral pink to match the sheen of her lip gloss and the polish that coats her nails. Hair that’s usually tossed haphazardly in a tail has been pinned up, held together by tiny flower-like pins, and there’s a name for the updo, he knows there is, but he’s too busy restraining himself from reaching out and winding a long, errant curl around his finger to remember it.

Arnold blurts the first thing that comes to mind, which ends up being, “You look great, Helga,” and it’s hard to feel embarrassed when Helga favors him with a smile bright enough to rival the overhead sun.

“Thanks. Are those for me?” she asks, jutting her chin somewhere below him, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s indicating the flowers he’s carrying, purchased on whim while he was walking here.

“Um, yes?” he says, offering them to her.

“You don’t sound very sure” she says dryly, “but thanks.” Helga takes them from him with such gentleness that for an instant he actually _envies them._

_I’m ridiculous,_ he thinks, watching Helga bring them to her nose, eyes fluttering half-closed in a manner that suggests she likes the way they smell.

And yeah, Arnold is definitely feeling jealous right now. Of _flowers._

“Okay, let me just put these in a vase and then we’ll head out. Do you want to come in?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll wait out here,” he says.

“Here, then hold this.” She hands him the cooler she’s carrying and he grimaces at its weight before slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”  

Arnold nods as she turns and slips through the part in the door. Just before it closes she looks behind her and gives him a slow once-over that makes his face _burn._

“You look great by the way, football head,” she tosses over her shoulder, and before Arnold can even _think_ to untangle the snaggled mess his thoughts have become, the door shuts in his face, concealing her from view.

Arnold can’t help it—he laughs, soft and helpless. He somehow feels more at ease than he’s been all day.

 

* * *

Hillwood Park isn’t nearly as crowded as Arnold feared it would be. They bypass the playground where the majority of the ruckus seems to be contained and continue heading north, past various sports fields and a rounded rubber track, and further, over a small footbridge that arches over a listless stream and opens into a vast field.

Helga guides them to a small copse of maple trees and the two of them proceed to unpack the cooler, withdrawing a thick blanket first and spreading it across the ground. Arnold uses their shoes to hold down the wind-susceptible corners while Helga deposits the remaining contents of the bag onto the blanket.

“That looks good,” Arnold says, eyeing a saran-wrapped plate of brownies.

Helga throws a napkin at him. “Wipe the drool from your mouth,” she says with a dramatic roll of her eyes, but there’s a pleased lilt to her words that doesn’t go unheard.

Arnold settles down next to her, so close there isn’t an inch of space between their arms, and feels his heart stutter when Helga leans into him.  

“This is nice,” she murmurs, eyes sweeping over their surroundings.

_Yeah,_ Arnold is about to say, but is interrupted by the sound of his stomach rumbling. He flushes when Helga lets loose an amused snort, which tumbles into a laugh. Attempts a glare, but it’s difficult to feign anger when Helga looks so _happy,_ even if it’s at his expense.

“Okay, okay, I’m done,” she says, laughter trickling off. “Whoo, that was hilarious. Sorry,” she adds as if in afterthought, and Arnold shoves her a little because she doesn’t sound very sorry at all.

“So I made sandwiches,” she says, pulling a tupperware container towards them, “because that’s classic picnic food and one should always stick to the classics—”

“In other words, you ruined whatever it was you were originally going to make and didn’t have time to whip up anything else.”

Helga’s shove is considerably more violent than his had been, and he flails as he tips over.

“S-shut up, football head!” she snaps, eyes  focuses on her task of setting the sandwiches onto disposable plates. “It’s not my fault we have such a crappy oven, okay? I did _everything_ right, followed every step to the _T,_ and the stupid thing still ended up getting burnt.”

She slaps his plate in front of him with a scowl that Helga would hate to know he finds cute.

“What about the brownies?” he asks, gaze sliding towards them. They _look_ edible, but then they’re also _brown_ and covered in _fudge_. It’s not as if he’ll notice if they aren’t.

“…Phoebe,” Helga admits grudgingly, the tips of her ears turning the color of her dress, and it’s Arnold’s turn to snort, though he at least has the decency to try concealing it.

Helga isn’t fooled. “I hate you,” she grouses, before taking a huge bite of her sandwich.

“Liar,” Arnold shoots back before taking a bite of his own.

And promptly gags—it’s _tuna—_ before covering it with a cough when Helga glances at him in concern.

“Water,” he gasps, and within moments he’s tearing the top off a bottle and chugging the liquid down.

She thumps his back. “Oi, you alright?”

“Yeah. I guess it went down the wrong way.”

Helga pats his back one last time before withdrawing her hand. “You need to be more careful, Arnold. Seriously. What would your family say if they knew you died eating a friggin’ _sandwich_ of all things? They’d be too ashamed to even attend your funeral. Hell, _I’d_ be too ashamed to, either. Show some consideration for the rest of us, please.”

“Thanks for your concern,” he says dryly, but nudges her shoulder because for all she sounds aggrieved, there’s real worry in her eyes and it makes him feel guilty _._ He doesn’t _deserve_ it.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Now finish your sandwich, but _slowly_ this time.”

Arnold rolls his eyes but dutifully picks up his sandwich from his lap. Stares at it.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of it now,” she deadpans.

He shoots her a look he hopes conveys the depths of his annoyance  and reluctantly takes a bite.

Chokes it down. It’s gross. So, so gross. Everything about it—the smell, the taste, the texture, the disgusting way it slides down his throat—makes him want to throw up. Arnold can’t stand tuna—hasn’t been able to since he ate a spoiled sandwich in eighth grade and became so violently ill he was bedridden for a week.

But he doesn’t spit it out. Can’t—not without making Helga feel bad. For all that she’s one of the strongest people he knows, she can also be surprisingly fragile about certain things, and Arnold is determined not to let this be another instance where he screws things up.

He’s halfway finished, opening his mouth to take the fourth bite, when a warm hand closes over his own, stopping him. He tosses a questioning look towards Helga, hating himself for the flicker of relief that runs through him.

“Helga?”

Wordlessly, she tugs the sandwich out of his hand.

“If you didn’t like it you should have just said so.”

Arnold’s eyes widen. And here he thought he was being subtle.

“It’s not that,” he tries, mind working to come up with an excuse. “It’s just…”

The look she slants him is exasperated, and she says bluntly, “Arnold, you looked like you were being forced to eat week-old puke.”

He winces and rubs the back of his neck, feeling the lowest of low for not stopping her when she tosses it into a trash bag.

“I’m sorry, Helga,” he says miserably, and chooses to focus on a flyaway leaf rather than meet her gaze. He hears her sigh and his shoulders slump under the weight of it.

“It’s fine, Arnold. I should have asked what you wanted to eat beforehand.” A pause, and then, quietly, “I thought you _liked_ tuna, though. I mean, you used to trade your peanut-butter sandwiches for my tuna ones all the time. Did I mess the dressing up?”

There’s thinly veiled dejection in her voice as she says it, and he didn’t think it possible to feel any lower than he already does. His feelings of guilt intensifies when Helga peels the bread of her own half-eaten sandwich apart and scrutinizes it, lips thinning in a way that Arnold knows means she’s feeling bad.

_Great going,_ he tells himself as he echoes her earlier gesture and places a hand over hers, stopping her from searching for what isn’t there.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice firm. “I got food poisoning a few months back after eating spoiled tuna and haven’t been able to eat the stuff since. I’m really sorry, Helga. I should have told you earlier.”

She frowns at him. “First of all, you are definitely not the one who should be apologizing here. Secondly,” her voice rises, cutting off his attempt to protest, “you got _food poisoning_? When was this?”

“Summer before we started high school. I was sick for a week.” Arnold’s stomach roils just thinking about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It never came up?”

She rolls her eyes at him, and some of the weight on his shoulders lifts.

“So anything else you’ve conveniently forgotten to tell me?”

Arnold’s face shifts into something serious. “I _really_ want to eat the brownies Phoeb—I mean, _you_ made.”

“I should withhold them until I finish eating. Would serve you right, Arnoldo.”

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

Her grin is all teeth. “Never.”

“Better than football head, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath.

“What’s that?”

Arnold says nothing, eyes trained on the plate of brownies that’s suddenly deposited in front of him. He spares Helga a thrilled grin before tearing the offensive wrapping away and grabbing one. His stomach grumbles in anticipation as he brings the spongey confection between his teeth and takes a bite. Shuts his eyes and moans, because this is a Phoebe Brownie through and through and deserves nothing short of holy reverence.

It’s only after he’s swallowed the last bite and is chasings the remnants on his fingers with his tongue that he realizes Helga is staring at him. He can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed—Helga _knows_ how he gets when chocolate is involved (especially _Phoebe’s_ chocolate) so she can’t be surprised. He’s about to dismiss it and reach for another brownie when a thought enters his head, strange in its newness, and he freezes as his mind works to analyze it.

Perhaps it’s different now that they’re dating—that expectations are higher, and certain behaviors that were okay before are no longer so. The thought turns the brownie he ingested to stone, where it sits heavily in his stomach, uncomfortable. It’s an illogical thought but  it isn’t as if he has any experience with dating, unless one counts the week-long _fling_ he had with Lila a few years back, which he personally doesn’t.

It’s with a sense of trepidation that Arnold hazards a glance at Helga.

What he sees forces the breath from him.

Helga’s looking at him in a way he’s only ever seen glimpsesof, cast his way when she thinks he isn’t looking and gone the second  she realizes that he is (he _always_ is), and it makes his heart beat against his ribcage with enough strength to leave an imprint the shape and feel of a bruise. The look in her eyes—bluer than the sky, with flecks of silver like the outline of clouds, and stars, too many to number—makes him shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the slight chill in the air, and breathless in a way no healthy person his age should be.

So focused is he on watching the gleam in her half-mast eyes and the darkening hue of her cheeks that he doesn’t notice she’s moving until her hand is on his on cheek and she’s closing the distance between them.

“You’ve got chocolate here,” she murmurs, sweeping a thumb against the corner of his mouth, and Arnold can’t say who moves first, if any of them did. Within one heartbeat and the next his lips are on hers, and he should feel disgusted by the scent of tuna on her breath but isn’t. It’s overpowered by the smell of _Helga—_ vanilla soap and mint shampoo and the barest hint of perfume, and something that’s intrinsically hers, undefinable despite the many hours he’s spent trying to—and he allows himself a second to break away, to reestablish where Helga ends and he begins, before pressing his lips to hers once more.

Arnold has kissed other girls before—girls whose lips were softer, whose touch was gentler, who had enough sense to realize that keeping one’s eyes open during a kiss was _creepy as hell—_ yet he can’t remember another kiss coming close to this. It’s perfect, which is why he frowns in confusion when Helga presses her palm against his chest and retreats.

He peels his eyes open. “Helga?” he asks, unable to hide his concern. He has a second to wonder what’s wrong, the question dragging itself to the end of his tongue, when she reaches over him, plucks a brownie from its plate, and unceremoniously shoves it in her mouth.

Arnold repeats her name, baffled now, as he watches her rapidly chew and swallow, tossing back a can of Pepsi to wash it down. She wipes the back of her mouth with her arm, which accomplishes nothing, then turns to him.

“There,” she says, leaning towards him. “Tuna taste gone. Now kiss me _properly._ ”

Arnold tries to hold it in, he _does._ But there’s a smear of fudge on her upper lip, and a piece of brownie stuck between her teeth, and when she goes to lick her lips her tongue is _brown._ The way she’s looking at him, too—impatient and annoyed, like every second he’s not kissing her is a personal affront—makes  the laugh inside of him build to uncontainable proportions. But it isn’t until she demands, “Well?” in the same voice she uses on her birthday when Arnold takes too long to hand over her present that he _loses it._ His laughter bursts out of him, bright like the day, and before Helga can take it the wrong  way Arnold takes her hand and kisses her the way they both want him to.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says when he breaks for breath, lips tingling and chocolate on his breath, “but I love you so much.”

Helga goes still against him, the arms around his neck tightening. Arnold hears her breath stutter, hears her swallow, before she releases a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob, and kisses him again.

“You’re such a sap,” she complains as she pulls away, but there’s a smile in her voice and wonder in her eyes and happiness etched into each line on her face.  “But yeah, I guess I do, too.”

Arnold closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers, grateful for the arms that anchor him because he feels so light he could fly.  

“You _guess?"_  he asks.

Helga says, “Oh shut up, football head,” and when Arnold starts to protest, silences him with another spine-tingling kiss.

He lets her.

 

****


End file.
